


Seven of Nine (but not really about her - she’s not in this)

by Byrcca



Series: Fixed It For Ya! (You Know What You Did/Didn’t Do) [3]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Book #16: Seven of Nine, Christie Golden, F/M, Seven isn’t in this, That’s the book title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 21:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14627088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca
Summary: Because he’s young. Because he’s far from his family and has no one to guide him. Because I believe he still loves her. (Blood Fever didn’t come out of nowhere) SPOILERS for the twenty-year-old book.





	Seven of Nine (but not really about her - she’s not in this)

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS....Book 16: Seven of Nine by Christie Golden. Tom and B’Elanna are finally a couple, not that you’d notice. It’s set after The Killing Game, and most of the plot is, wait for it, about Seven. It’s actually a pretty good story, and apparently the ep, The Raven? Which aired after the book was published, is similar. So. I forget and didn’t bother to check. 
> 
> They have to go through a section of space that is regimentally controlled by a prince? I didn’t really pay attention. Seven is getting psychic flashes. Our intrepid band pick up some refugees who happen to be psychic and...you can figure it out. There is some P/T stuff and PLOT TWIST a teen alien refugee gets a crush on Tom and makes him lurve her through...MIND CONTROL. Don’tcha love it?
> 
> There’s a scene where Vorik notices B’Elanna’s confusion and pain and tries to distract her. It’s sweet, actually. He’s sweet. I love him. I do.

~~~

He’d been watching, observing, and he was concerned. Tom Paris appeared to have lost interest in her. Truthfully, it had happened later in their relationship than he had anticipated, given Paris’ flighty nature and his predisposition to boredom. He would never admit to being happy about their relationship’s demise, but it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he was pleased. She needed a partner who was her equal. Someone who shared her interests, her ambitions, who matched her in intelligence and strength. Tom Paris was not that man. Vorik had known it a year ago, and still regretted that B’Elanna had selected so poorly her choice of mate.

So he’d watched them and waited. They’d been less than circumspect at the beginning of their relationship, but after a rumoured dressing down by the captain, they had been more reserved, to the point where Vorik had wondered if they had come to the obvious conclusion that they didn’t belong together. But then he had overheard her discussing a dinner date with Paris with Ensign Kim, and she had assigned him a diagnostic so she could have the evening off, and he had come to the regrettable conclusion that they were, indeed, still a couple. 

But they may not be now. Lieutenant Paris, a frequent visitor and irritant to engineering, had been noticeably absent from deck twelve since the Skedans had come aboard _Voyager_ , coinciding with a noticeable increase in B’Elanna’s bad temper. Paris’ early interest and attention had obviously flattered B’Elanna, and Vorik knew from their short, aborted mind meld that she often felt alone, misunderstood, and had craved that attention. Had craved someone to make her feel like she belonged. 

But Tom Paris was not the man to give her that sense of completion. He hoped, in as much as a Vulcan would allow himself the self-indulgence, that Paris’ interest had finally turned elsewhere. 

It was considered impolite for a Vulcan to delve into the emotions of those around him. A social and personal lapse that no Vulcan would do, it defied convention and, simply put, created discomfort for all involved. But B’Elanna bled emotion even when she appeared outwardly calm, and some days it took his strongest shields to keep himself from being swamped by her feelings. 

Though Paris’ behaviour had frequently given rise to irritation in B’Elanna, recently Vorik had sensed her confusion and feelings of dejection. Today, it had turned to anger, and a defensive wall had gone up around her emotions, but he could still sense them like a hurricane force wind buffeting his mental reinforcements. Today, her anger simmered just under the surface ready to be sparked to a flame. And mixed with it was a hurt that Vorik felt compelled to respond to. Felt compelled to ease. 

She was cursing quietly, venting her ill temper in much the same way as a ruptured plasma conduit spewed poison gas on anyone within reach. 

“Lieutenant?” He approached her cautiously, as always, alert to her body’s posture, her breathing. Their link had stretched thin as gossamer, but it still held almost a year later: a slim, shining thread, thin as a spider’s silk, which he could follow to her. He could cut it, using the proper mental disciplines, but he told himself that their link aided his relationship with her, helped him to gauge her moods. It made it easier for him to anticipate her wishes, as well, it acted as a warning to stay out of her way. Today he felt her isolation and pain and knew there was something he could do to help her. 

She was on her back, under a console, and her body turned slightly toward him but she didn’t bother to pull herself upright and look at him. “What is it Vorik?”

“You have been working for three hours, twenty seven minutes and nine seconds without a break.”

“Have I?” Her voice held an edge to it, and she slid out from under the console and stood. She frowned at him, rolled her shoulders and winced. 

“Yes,” Vorik confirmed. “Might I suggest that you take a short respite. As you have frequently commented, Klingon bodies are not meant to be _crammed under a console_ for hours at a time.”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile. “You’re right. I do say that a lot, don’t I?”

Vorik nodded, noting her sudden ease. He had succeeded in distracting her from her thoughts of the faithless pilot. “May I buy you a beverage, Lieutenant? A raktajino, perhaps?” He knew of her preference for the drink, and though he found it cloyingly sweet, the iced version was palatable. 

“Okay. You’re right.” She turned and set her microspanner in its place inside her toolkit then snapped the lid closed. She sent him a bright smile. “Lead on.”

Vorik asked her about the repair schedule, and volunteered to give up his evening off to assist her. That seemed to please her. He was careful not to mention the propulsion systems, shuttle maintenance, Skedans, or anything else that might remind her of the pilot. When they arrived in the messhall, he ordered two icey rakdajinos and steered her toward a table in the back, maneuvering her so her back was to the viewport in case the sight of a starfield might make her think of Paris.

He kept up a line of light conversation, the topics ranging from the climate on Vulcan to the winged Trosk beast of Coridan III. And as he was talking, he reached out just slightly and touched her mind. It was a transgression—it wasn’t done. But B’Elanna was special, she was already a part of him. He willed her calmness, serenity, and he watched as she started to relax. He sensed that she had come to a decision and felt a peace settle over her. 

“This was nice, Vorik, thank you.” She smiled at him as she stood. “You were right, I needed the break. Next time, it’s on me.”

He nodded and followed her out of the mess, content that he had helped her and hopeful, as hopeful as a Vulcan would admit to being, that she would some day soon recognize how well they functioned together. 

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn’t meant to be creepy or negative. If Joe had noticed her mood and bought her that cup of...Joe. :-) ...it would have been a gesture of concern and friendship.


End file.
